by Cari Quinn
She groaned as he swiped his tongue over the space behind her ear, then over her fluttering pulse. The tiny nip of his teeth made her shudder.
The mark would be small. The tiniest star-sized bruise. But she had three there, for three nights that she’d taken him like this.
In secret, in hidden spaces around the venues they’d been at every evening.
He pushed at the short A-line skirt she wore and groaned when he found the crotchless hose she was wearing. He crouched down in front of her and breathed over the three inches of skin that showed between the top of the garter-style hose and the band around her thigh.
He dug the tip of his tongue through the see-through lace she wore. “Fuck.”
It wasn’t a whisper, it was a sharp, hard K that she heard over everything else.
The rasp of his tongue at her clit made her squirm. Just that. All it took was his breath on her and she was as wet as if they’d spent an hour in foreplay.
He rose and stared into her eyes as he pushed the scrap of panties aside and slipped his two middle fingers inside her. She wanted to close her eyes, to lose herself in the moment and the pleasure, but she couldn’t.
She watched his intense face as he thrust those fingers inside her again and again. The way his shoulder muscles flexed, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow, and the sounds.
She whimpered at the sounds echoing around the tile. Her needy sounds that made her cringe warred with the way her body opened and soaked his fingers. Always for him.
As if he was the single key to her lock.
She did close her eyes at that thought. He twisted his fingers so that his thumb came up and circled her clit until the little sounds turned to a sob.
With his other hand, he struggled with his zipper.
And finally, when she got her hands to work, she went for his button and found a button fly, not a zipper. The satisfying rending of buttons through their respective holes revved her higher.
“Inside me. Please.”
He palmed one of the condoms he always had on him from his pocket and stuck it between his teeth. He lifted one eyebrow and she stole it, jerking the plastic open.
“Shit.” She’d never actually had to put one on before.
His lips spread into a smirk. “Trampoline,” he whispered.
She looked down and flipped it, holding the tip as she firmly and slowly pushed it down his length. His face went from smirky to serious as she circled the base of his cock tightly.
“Inside,” she said.
He withdrew his fingers and pulled her knee up on his hip. These were the perfect moments when she loved her height. When they lined up like this.
He bent his knees enough to drag the head of his cock along her slit, rocking it up and over her clit in a wide, slick circle before he tucked himself inside her and lifted her onto her toes with the force of the thrust.
“God, yes.”
She gripped his shoulders and took each punishing slam of his hips, each dragging stroke as he found that spot deep inside and exploited it. Nothing else existed but the sounds of slapping skin and his harsh breaths against her neck.
She held on through the storm and pressed her cheek against his collarbone, following the tremor of pleasure until her thighs quaked and her insides trembled.
She scraped her nails up the nape of his neck and along the top of his head, gasping his name as she came. He didn’t stop, never stopped.
Never let up until she heard the tiniest moan through his chest as it crawled into her and she shook through the aftershocks of his release and a second one of her own.
She couldn’t let go. She cursed herself, but her arms wouldn’t unwind. She needed to breathe in his mint and ginger scent a little while longer.
All the ginger and honey tea he’d been drinking had changed how he smelled, even the taste of his skin. It infused her with the new Simon that the tour had created.
The open wounds she felt getting just a little bit bigger as each week passed. She tried to hold him together as much as she could in these small moments when words were lost to her.
To them.
Where his heartbeat and hers knew how to communicate, when the rest of them didn’t.
Seventeen
Simon pulled the towel over his head and crouched over the sink. His pores were completely blown out from the steam of the day, the steam in the goddamn room, and the hot tea he had to drink.
On a ninety-seven degree day. Sweet fuck.
He’d joked his way through the acoustic show, keeping to the midtones that didn’t tax his voice, but the talking did him in. Like it always did.
He tried to stay quiet, to let everyone else do the heavy lifting, but every single freaking question was for him. Hell, he waited for the band to grouse and bitch that everyone wanted to talk to him, but the round robin snark and sarcasm that came after whatever comment he made fueled the fire.
And then there was nothing but laughter. And the joy of it was there, staring at him, surrounding him. This was what the tour was supposed to be about. These little fun moments between everyone.
He wanted to participate. He knew he’d pay for it every damn time, but he wanted it—couldn’t fucking shut up. And now he was steaming his throat to moisten it and hope to shit the tickle would settle back.
The click of someone putting down his metal pot on the next sink made his heart plummet.
“You can hide under that little steam tent you’ve made yourself, but you’ll still have to talk to me before you go on stage.”
He dug out his phone.
Talking is the problem.
Lila sighed. “You’re an ass, but this is fine. I don’t care if you answer me in text.”
Good, because that’s what you’re getting.
“Is it that bad?”
He thumbed back a quick answer, then erased it and started over.
Definitely not doing a double encore tonight, Dragon Lady.
“I’m glad you can still joke. Hope you will tomorrow too when you see Dr. West.”
Simon flipped off the towel and met her impassive gaze.
I don’t need a doctor.
“Oh, I beg to differ, singer boy. If you’re having trouble, you should get checked out before it gets worse.”
He blew out a breath. It was smart, but for fuck’s sake, he didn’t want to know. He just wanted to keep doing what he was doing. It was working.
For now.
Simon ignored the little voice and poured a cup of his tea, wincing at the first shot of ginger taste before the honey chased it down to a semi-decent flavor. He replied to Lila.
Who is he?
“He’s an Ears, Nose, and Throat doctor. They specialize in this kind of thing. And he comes highly recommended.”
Just the thought of scopes and lights down his already abused throat was enough to kill whatever buzz he was feeling earlier. He wanted a drink, but he’d done some reading and alcohol made things worse when it came to vocal problems.
And then he’d closed every goddamn window on his browser because everything else was terrifying.
Nodes. Polyps. Hemorrhages.
WebMD was the goddamn devil. But all he had was a tickle in his throat. Everything else seemed so huge. It couldn’t be what he had.
Maybe we can look at getting me a coach?
A little of the tension eased around her eyes. “Yeah, definitely. That’s a great idea. I’ll get on that, all right?”
He nodded. A coach he could deal with. He’d always sucked at school and having someone tell him what to do, but this was important. This was his career.
He just needed to get through this show and then he had two whole days that he could just shut up and rest. Maybe he could even get away from everyone and hole up.
That idea was both exhilarating and horrible. He hated to be alone. But he didn’t want everyone staring at him with sympathetic eyes, either. That was one step away from pity.
Lesser of two
evils was to disappear for a bit.
Nick slapped the doorjamb. “Ready, Prima Donna? On in five.”
Simon nodded and flipped him off.
“You wish,” Nick shot back.
He stared into the mirror and groaned. He looked like hammered shit. He slapped the palm plate on one of the hand driers and flipped the vent up to blow the wet out of his hair.
It wouldn’t last long on stage, but at least he’d have a few songs and the tour photographer had a few minutes to catch him looking almost decent.
As long as they didn’t look too closely.
Simon ran to his spot with seconds to spare. Deacon’s low thrumming bass set off the mood and Margo had traded violin for cello.
Simon looked over his shoulder and had to breathe deep before he swallowed his tongue and fucking choked on it.
Jesus fuck.
She was in head-to-toe black—sheer black thigh-highs that stopped an inch from her ultra-short dress that hugged every curve. She had on stilettos that made her legs seem miles long and that ridiculously sexy cello against her shoulder. Her hair was up to show off her long, elegant neck and she had blood red lips that made his cock harden.
He wanted between those lips, to watch them stretch open and take him.
Starting a concert with a boner. Awesome.
The crowd lost their collective minds as the shroud dropped from the front of the arch. Because they were into late June, the days were long enough that the sun didn’t set until well into their set.
They couldn’t play with the lights for effect until later in the night. And because the crowd was as hot as the Indiana temperature, he jumped into the archway and sat cross-legged on the metal pieces to get a look at everyone.
The crowd was open to his antics and he used every one of them to let the guys do the heavy lifting on singing. He crawled along the arch and hung down into the side pit of people from the fan club.
And because he was feeling daring, he dropped into the pit and let them grope him. He played it up as if he was fighting to get out of the pit and back onstage.
Laying on the ramp, he peeled off his white t-shirt and hung it off Nick’s mic stand. “I give up.”
Nick flipped off his shirt and faux stomped on his ribs. “Get moving, Pretty Boy.”
Simon gasped and reached for his mic. He whispered for some help with the first verse of “Lit” and was rejuvenated with the sing-along song.
By the middle of the show, he was pretty sure he was going to make it without incident. The tickle lingered, but didn’t made a nuisance of itself.
He even pulled a lower register vibrato out of his ass for “The Becoming” at the end of the night.
When he ran around the ramps that circled the stage for the cover song of the night, he finally felt the first moment of panic.
As he opened his mouth for the last verse of “In the Still of the Night”, his voice shattered. Not broke, not cracked, it absolutely shredded itself in two.
Enough that Deacon came up and met him on the ledge of the stage, and Nick and Gray scooted to either side of him to sing the end a Capella.
For the first time in his entire life, he lip synced. Had no fucking choice.
His face must have been as pale as he thought it was when Nick swiped his thumb over the corner of his lower lip and Simon automatically did the same.
And found blood on his thumb.
The house lights went down and he found Margo’s hand laced in his as she led him off the stage.
Shouts and scrambling roadies started the breakdown of the set like usual. The house music started and “The Final Countdown” was piped through the pavilion.
Christ, that was an ominous song.
A bottle of water was pushed into his hand and he was funneled into the backstage area and deposited onto a faux leather couch in the corner.
Lila was on her phone and pacing the length of the room. Food was piled up and the watermelon station went unheeded.
Everyone was crowded around him.
“Stop,” Simon said on a raspy voice. “I just overdid it all week. I’ll be fine.”
Lila whipped out an arm and pointed at him and made a shut-your-mouth gesture with her fingers and continued talking to the person on the phone.
Had to be a doctor.
He glugged down the water and the metallic aftertaste made him wince.
Lila’s voice raised. “I don’t care what his after-hours visit cost is. Get him here now.”
“Remind me never to cross her,” Nick said.
“Right,” Jazz said with a snort.
Simon curled his arm across his belly and stared at the wall as his friends all teased and taunted Nick and alternately tried to console him.
He didn’t want to hear it.
He wanted them all gone.
All he wanted to do was escape and drink himself into stupor where there was no pain. Drink until he blacked out and then he wouldn’t be able to speak for sure.
Then he could hide in the darkness and erase the looks on each of his friends’ faces. The ones that were too earnest, too concerned, and then even worse, the ones between each other when they thought he wasn’t paying attention.
He stood and broke through the love and support that felt too much like lead-lined blankets. He bounced against the wall like a pinball in fatigue and dehydration until he got to the bus.
The screams from those that had gotten beyond the ropes or around security reverberated in his head. He didn’t even turn around.
His sole focus was the stairs and the quiet. The bus was dark save for the running board lights and he left it that way.
He tripped his way into the showers and soaped off the grime and sweat of the show. He wanted to clear his throat, but even the thought of it made his eyes cross. No matter how much steam he used, he couldn’t fight down the tickle.
The only thing that battled it back at all was the cold water or hot tea. How much liquid could the human body hold?
It seemed like such a small problem, but the constant itch at the back of his throat was slowly driving him mad. And now, he’d fucked up a song. What if that had been in the middle of the show and not the end?
What if it didn’t get better?
He pressed his forehead to the shower tiles. The sound of the glass door opening and closing made him jump.
Margo’s arms came around his belly and her cheek pressed against his back.
“I thought there was no naked on the bus,” he whispered.
“Shh.”
He wasn’t sure how long they stood like that. The water ran from hot to cool and his head felt like an overcooked lobster.
She didn’t say another word, just climbed out and left him alone. He finally turned off the taps and climbed out. Surprisingly, he felt steadier and was afraid to examine that too closely.
When he dried off and came out of the bathroom, Lila was there on the couch with a strange man. He was wearing a polo shirt and shorts and reminded him of a TV dad.
He didn’t look at all happy to be there.
That made them even, because he wasn’t at all happy to have him there.
Simon sawed his thumbs through the sides of his favorite torn t-shirt. The familiar softness and age of the cotton weirdly felt like a coat of armor.
The dad-doc stood. “Hello Mr. Kagan, I’m Dr. West.”
Simon opened his mouth and the doctor waved him off.
“Let’s take a look in there before you talk. See how much damage you did.”
He sighed and clenched his jaw. He looked around the bus, but Margo was gone. He glanced at Lila and she sat across from him on the edge of the couch with her hands folded.
With no other choice but to sit down, he let the doctor lead him to the small table where they ate breakfast. It had the most light.
“I’m going to just do a visual exam to start and see where we are, all right?”
Simon shrugged.
Dr. West set a bag on the tabl
e and pulled out a thin, bendy tool with a light at the end and something that looked like a dentist’s mirror.
“Now relax. I know you want to cough. I can see how irritated your throat is already. I’m not going to go all the way down with the guide, just shine a light into your vocal chords.”
Simon hid his hands under the table and fisted them on his lap as he opened his mouth. The guy mumbled a few things into his cell phone and then wrote down a few other things.
He put the instruments into a plastic bag and tucked them all back into his case. “Not awful. You’re young and fit and you don’t smoke, right?”
Simon shook his head. That had never been one of his vices.
“You’ve strained your chords and the tissues are definitely engorged. You need full vocal rest for a minimum of three days. I’d be more comfortable with two weeks to be honest, but I know you’re on tour.”
Lila leaned forward. “What are we talking here, Doctor?”
“I’ll need to do a more thorough exam, but you mentioned you’re heading to California, so I’ll give you some names of specialists there.”
“Thank you.” She stood and put her hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Three days?”
“Yes. No talking, no singing, obviously no shouting.”
Simon’s shoulders tensed. They only had two days off. The third day was The Greek in Berkley. It was in their backyard, goddammit.
“The ginger tea is good to keep the irritation down so you don’t cough, but it also can numb it so you think you can push harder than you should. That’s why they’re so inflamed.” The doctor held up his two forefingers and moved them close together, but not quite touching. “When you sing, they move closer together to make the individual sounds you need. Yours are so big that they’re vibrating against each other and making little inflammation pockets. Could be nodes or cysts forming. I won’t know without a full exam.”
Simon tipped back his head. Those were words he didn’t want to hear. He’d seen them when he’d gone online.
